


Echoes and Ciphers

by ceciliamayden



Category: Original Work
Genre: (kind of?), Angst and Humor, Boarding School, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Forests, M/M, Mystery, Private School, Slow Burn, Thriller, the chapters aren’t long though, there are going to be a lot of chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 23:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16586786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliamayden/pseuds/ceciliamayden
Summary: The Dyason family; a tragic tale of mistakes and loss.The Dyason Echo; their legacy, a local legend.The Dyason Codex; a documentation of ciphers and insights.Centuries later in the small Australian town of St Ledger, two groups stumble across a book that sends them traipsing into the woods at midnight, on a path to find the answers to all they desired. What they never expected to come of it was an alliance, danger and various visits to a psychic partial to making ominous comments.





	1. Prologue

Everyone craves something.

Whether it be the sense of belonging in a new town, the love of the one you've been pining over, the success of a flourishing business, the confidence it takes to finish an anxiety-invoking task. You may not know it, but the universe does. And, sometimes, the universe may make it its mission for you to know. Because your destiny is your own, but sometimes the universe interferes.

Evelyn Wren craved purpose.

In a town filled with obnoxious and dangerous prosperity such as St Ledger, one feels from one's peers the pressure to do something memorable with their lives. In a town filled with peculiar and unspoken atmospheres such as St Ledger, one feels from one's veins the urge to do something _meaningful_ with their lives. From one side, Wren had her parents' wishes imprinted into her brain. From the other side, she had the universe's wishes shining in her eyes.

Wren had finally found her purpose in the early winter of her final year of high school. The daylight had been fading, the quiet had been dawning. Unsettled dust hung suspended in the air above a book. A book with a leather spine and crackling pages. A book that contained mysteries and echoes of the past. A book that whispered. It had fallen from its nook as she reached the end of the library aisle, the crash and the following silence beckoning to her. Anticipation had filled her as she walked slowly back. She picked it up. A chilling breeze had danced across her skin. She read the first words on the page it had opened to; "pellucidity is revealed within the mirror".


	2. ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meares has more common sense than Wren.

Meares lurched backwards and snatched her cereal away protectively. Her wide eyes were fixed on the map that had been slammed in front of her without warning. Wren leant over their dining table, not removing her hand, not breaking eye contact. A smirk was spread across her face—one akin to a cat after cornering a mouse.

"Geez, Wren!" Meares exclaimed, her voice high-pitched from shock. Still clutching her bowl to her chest, she looked up at her friend with an expression that was a comical mix of disbelief and offence.

"I found it." Wren replied. She had hazel eyes that glimmered with triumph. Her dark brown hair was cut in a bob with a soft fringe, not obscuring her hoop earrings. Perfect eyebrows sat on perfect skin. A gold chain hung from her neck, a moon pendant resting against her chest that was obscured by her school jumper. She was button-up skirts and autumn colour palettes, calm indie music and the smell of hot chocolate.

"Ugh, is that what this is about?" Asked their friend, Glass, who had walked in behind Wren. She shifted slightly away from them to talk to the normal people in their friendship group. "Leave my toast out of this."

Wren and Meares had tried to convince her to join their quest, but she had refused, insisting that it was futile and, quite frankly, weird. They couldn't deny the latter.

A small gasp escaped Meares’ lips and she set her bowl back down. She scanned the map, running her thumb over her bottom lip pensively, luckily not removing any of the natural-coloured lipstick. She used makeup to cover blemishes. Long lilac hair that she meticulously straightened every morning was swept over her shoulder as she leant forwards slightly. Her hair used to be a brown darker than Wren's, but with her pale skin and taste for black clothing, she had resembled a black and white photograph too much for her liking. She was lavender ice cream and mist in the early mornings, golden fairy lights and ivy on bare brick walls.

"How?" She breathed.

Wren sat down. "You know that cipher we've been working on?"

Meares nodded. It had been a week since her friend had found the book titled _The Dyason Codex_ , or rather since it had found her. It contained ciphers and riddles, photographs and poems. It told the story of the Dyason family in excruciating detail. How a man named Howard Dyason, his wife Margaret and their six children had lived in the town of St Ledger in the 1870's. How they had built themselves a stable life after moving from a small village in Ireland called Carlingford. How one night had been the beginning of a devastating downfall.

"I was looking through _The Advanced Guide to Codes and Languages_ ," she said, and Meares couldn't help but reflect on the pretentiousness of using the full name, "And, while we had been mostly focused on ciphers like Columnar and Atbash, it was actually a Transposition."

"And how, pray tell, did you discover this?"

She let out a chuckle, "Yesterday I looked at the page with the cipher on it again, and I noticed something bizarre. The page number. Despite being on the last page, it said '13'. So, I reread the thirteenth page until my eye caught the word 'transpose', and I recalled seeing 'Transposition' in _The Advanced_ —" 

"Wren just call it _The_ _Guide_ or something." Meares sighed, then shoved a spoonful of rice bubbles into her mouth. She'd been ogling over the map and had forgotten about how the cereal tends to go soggy after awhile. She internally shrugged, it wasn't as bad as soggy Weet-Bix.

"Oh- Yeah, okay." She nodded once in surprise, then went back into detective mode. "Anyway so I figured I'd try it. And I knew how many vertical and horizontal rows to use because it was the fourth word in the fourth line. So I plotted the cipher 'LDEOASRONEWD' vertically, then moved to the next four vertical rows and so on, so on. In the end it was an anagram, but with endless combinations it was so much easier to solve it this way."

"And you got it? Wren, how did you do that? That was so obscure."

The other girl shrugged. "We need to start believing that anything is possible, we can't overlook anything. It was a lot of hunches." Her cat-and-mouse smile vanished, instead replaced with a look of pure happiness. "Anyway, Meares, what does it matter? Guess what it says?"

"What?" She asked, even though she could see it on the map. She was resigned to the amount of work on their quest Wren had done without her. For someone who was ill and had incalculable assessment pieces looming, she had certainly made significant progress in a personal project. Meares only half-blamed her. She wouldn't want to do chemistry revision all day, either, but she also wished she actually had a day on hand to do that.

"Landseer Wood."

"Landseer Wood?" Meares raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't that-?"

"The original name for the Ringrose Woods?" Wren grinned. "Yes. Yes it is."

Meares paused, running her hand along the map of St Ledger, feeling the bump in the paper where the Ringrose Woods had been circled in red pen. She didn't look up as she said. "When are we going?"

"The next full moon," Wren replied, "But I don't know when that is."

"Out of all the things you calculated, you didn't think to look that up? It was literally the simplest task there." Meares fished around in her blazer pocket, producing her phone. Their futures were just a Google search and a car ride away.

The following week on a Monday night, the two of them found themselves at the edge of Ringrose Woods. They had informed Glass, Song and Ishmael, their housemates, that they were venturing there in case anything should happen. In return, they had been informed that it was a terrible idea and that they were going to die.

~

One of the things Meares' parents incessantly told her was not to trust anyone or anything, and many a time had she learnt that the hard way by trusting St Ledger's weather. Although it was midnight during winter, that didn't necessarily mean it would feel like it. Fortunately for her, the temperature readings had been correct. Unfortunately for her, the temperature was finally starting to realise that it was supposed to be cold.

She stepped out of the driver's seat of her '69 Mercedes 280SL, eyes scanning the trees that lay before her. She closed the door with only just enough force for it to latch, for something gave her the sense that a lack of noise would serve them well. Wrapping her thick, black coat around her, she joined Wren at the front of the car, leaves crunching under her boots. They went through their checklist a final time:

•Two torches

•Some spare batteries

•Two fully charged phones

•A knife

• _The Codex_

•An incalculable amount of measuring devices

While Meares knew concern knitted her brow and that her lips were pursed with ambivalence, Wren seemed unperturbed. Sure, she wrapped her scarf around her neck to guard herself from the chilled wind, but that was the only sign of discomfort she showed.

" _C'est_ _parti_ ," She smiled, shouldering their canvas bag of supplies. "Off we go."

They entered the woods, the only sounds emitted being their breathing and their feet on the detritus. The promise of a full moon was delivered splendidly, emanating such light that their torches were downgraded from essential to useful. 

Ringrose Woods was the type of location that secreted the sense that it was haunted, even when it was still bathed in the light of a safe summer's day. Occasionally stories would reach Meares' ears, of students from St Ledger's public school who, with a plethora to prove in a foolish rite of passage, dared enter Ringrose at night solitarily. Many preconceptions existed involving the three schools of St Ledger, often from the perspectives of one regarding another. However Meares had the sense to know that each school—whether it was public or private, co-educational or gender segregated—made bad decisions. They were teenagers, of course they were going to be stupid. They were just different breeds of stupid.

Meares and Wren continued to trek through the woods, each of them holding multiple devices, hoping for a flicker of the unusual. So far nothing of significance had occurred, but it had only been ten minutes, so Meares wasn't too worried. Disregarding the unease that had surrounded her since the beginning, that is. A charm of magpies squawked their disembodied cries at some unknown distance ahead. Meares shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

"We shouldn't be here," she said in a low voice that even she would admit sounded spooky, "Bad things are to come."

"What are you going on about, Meares?" Wren asked, unfazed, eyes on her equipment.

"The _magpies_ , Wren," she persisted, "First of all, they shouldn't even _be_ _here_. They're magpies, and they're in a forest, and they're awake at midnight. Don't you think there's something slightly off about that? Secondly, their cries."

Wren's tone was disinterested. "Their cries?"

She made her distress explicitly apparent in her voice, "There's a poem. 'One for sorrow/Two for mirth/Three for a funeral/Four for birth/Five for heaven/Six for hell/Seven for the devil, his own self'. I counted their cries. One, then a pause. Three, then a pause, three, then a pause." She, herself, paused, then said in a calmer yet grave voice, "I don't think this is a good idea, Wren."

Her friend finally looked up, but her expression was irritated. "We've been working on this for too long, come too far to turn back. Especially if we're basing our doubts on the number of times a group of magpies screeched. Besides, didn't you say 'four for birth'? One plus three is four. Rectified."

Meares sighed. She knew that attempting to budge the other girl was inevitably fruitless. If something bad happened, Meares was blaming her. She had been raised on superstition; no shoes on the table, avoid black cats, always walk around ladders, never open an umbrella indoors. As a result she had developed a belief in prophecy. To her, tarot cards were a certainty and tea leaves were a guarantee. To her, the magpies' cries were a pledge. A leaf from a low branch caressed her face, and she imagined it to be Fate teasing her with its promise. Invisible hands tugged at her hair, grabbed at her clothes, scratched her arms and legs. She bit back a scream. A weak, metallic taste arrived on her tongue.

After a period of silence, she spoke again, "Wren we don't even know what we're searching for. I mean, look at us. We're carrying a bolometer, thermometer, interferometer, magnetometer, mercury barometer... I'm surprised we're not carrying more ridiculous items that end in - _meter_ , like lactometer, or creepmeter. Most people don't even know what these do - hell, I'm not even sure I know what these do. Are you sure we shouldn't wait until next month? That'll provide us with plenty of time to figure this out!"

Wren shook her head. "You can turn back if you want to. I'm doing this."

As if Meares would ever let her best friend be stupid by herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed.


	3. TWO

Merlin Fahey craved answers.

He had a lot of questions, and no way to alleviate how they plagued him. Hours of searching turned into days, into weeks, into months. And all he had to show for it were sleepless nights and suffering opinions from teachers as his thoughts distracted him. No one understood his relentless need; his father thought him crazy, his brothers incessantly reminded him he was wasting his time, his friends were supportive but doubtful.

Perhaps they were right. He'd made absolutely no progress.

But that was until he'd discovered the Dyason Echo. Of course he knew of its existence beforehand, how could he not? It was St Ledger's favourite local legend, everyone had been raised on at least some variation of the story. However, he hadn't for a moment considered that it may be true until his friend, Eames, had found _The Dyason Codex_ in his family's library. Suddenly the world seemed that much brighter.

~

"So Eames is with Paschke, and Cawley and I are with Scanlan?" Merlin asked, jiggling his leg under the dining table. Too restless to eat, he'd pushed away his breakfast of crumpets soaked in butter and honey. It was a Monday morning yet he had never been so awake. He hadn't even needed the tea, but he had it anyway out of habit.

Merlin Fahey had dark, brown hair that was often mostly obscured by a beanie when he wasn't at school. He had nice, dark eyebrows and warm brown eyes that gave the impression of magnanimity. The combination of a ski slope nose, long eyelashes and acne-free skin ensured he was objectively attractive, although he would deny this. He was colder weather and soft hugs, eucalyptus trees and the feeling invoked from stargazing.

"Wait, why is Scanlan driving? I thought I was." Cawley asked, an indignant frown spread across his face. He had brown boyband hair and signature Cawley family jade eyes. His face was the only thing one would need to place his parents' financial status; textbook for family photos on the covers of business magazines, like a more functional version of the Carringtons. He was golden wristwatches and the unmistakable smell of summer, dinner parties and late night store runs. 

"I mean, you _can_ ," Scanlan shrugged after taking a swig from his apple juice, "If you want to be alone."

He had brown eyes, an olive complexion with freckles, and chin-length, dark hair that he washed once a week. Prone to sleeping for two measly hours per night, the dark circles that sat permanently under his eyes were capable of carrying a wallet containing his trust fund, a saturated umbrella, and his sister's Gucci high heels. He was paint-splattered clothing and Argentinian food, expensive cameras and the scent of an arts and crafts store.

"You suck." Cawley pouted without malice, pushing some scrambled egg onto his toast.

"What time are we meeting?" Eames asked, drumming his fingers on the side of his coffee cup. He had dark skin and lively black eyes, as well as neat, curly black hair. His uniform was constantly pristine, having been taught from a young age that he had to appear respectable because, whilst intelligence was one's greatest asset, first impressions always came from presentation. He was nostalgia and the scent of old books, peach iced tea and morning light through Georgian windows.

"Half past eleven, I believe," Paschke, holding a plate full of protein, replied as he sat opposite him, next to Scanlan. Paschke had curly auburn hair and thin eyebrows over amber eyes. He had a fair complexion and a sharp jawline, and the tips of his ears stuck out slightly. He was shattered glass and unsolicited fist bumps, potent cologne and lazy doodles in the margins of notebooks.

"Correct. By the eucalyptus tree." Merlin nodded, swirling around the small amount of tea he had left in his mug.

"Dude that's like saying 'let's meet by the rock', there are literally so many." Paschke said, unimpressed.

"The Guthrie one, you dumb cluck," he rolled his eyes, "What other would I mean?"

"The Harrick one," Scanlan suggested.

"The Norris," Cawley piped up with a wide-eyed grin.

Merlin waved a hand, smiling despite himself, "Shut _uuup_!"

The general consensus seemed to be that Wanliss Academy named too many floras after dead, white men. They probably made some kind of contribution involving offhand donations, but the students just knew them as the Tree People.

~

"I'm not enjoying this," Cawley grumbled, glaring at his friends from the backseat of Scanlan's '59 Chevy Impala. Truly, it was rather impressive, and he'd even heard Merlin—who cared nothing for the vehicular pursuits of typical Wanliss students—admit this. However the downside to the bronze convertible was that the heating, to put it simply, sucked. He was rugged up in a spare duvet each dorm had in their closet, and if it was possible to scowl at the temperature, then he was doing that, too.

"You didn't have to come," Scanlan pointed out as he eased the car into a parking space outside Ringrose Woods. Ringrose was not a pleasant place to be during the day, and now Cawley had the privilege of discovering it was even worse at night. Just what he needed.

Merlin practically leapt out of the car, even forgetting to close his door at first. Scanlan stepped out like a normal person, hands shoved in his pea coat. Cawley, on the other hand, reluctantly shrugged off his duvet and slinked out, as if by being discreet he could avoid the cold even noticing him at all.

He looked over to his right to see Paschke and Eames leaning against Paschke's Maserati Alfieri, which was dark blue but appeared black without daylight. They pushed off the car and walked over, each carrying a different device that Paschke had found... somewhere. Cawley fetched his designated device from the back of Scanlan's car then closed the door. Scan locked it with a satisfying click.

"Do we have a plan?" Eames asked as they made their way to the edge of the woods.

"Uhh point, try not to die, and hope for the best?" Merlin shrugged, taking the lead.

"Well it would certainly be best if we didn't die..." Cawley grumbled, switching on his EMF reader. He wasn't entirely confident about what they were going to find, as in he didn't think they were going to find anything other than twigs, leaves and dirt. Some rocks, perhaps. He was certain that there were better things they could be doing with their Monday night, like sleeping instead of gallivanting about one of the most haunted places in St Ledger. This was saying something, because St Ledger itself seemed to be haunted, sometimes. Besides, he had a civics exam that, if he had to be up at this time, he'd like to be studying for.

"Oh, I dunno, man," Paschke replied, squinting to see the thermometer reading, "Wouldn't have to hand in that business essay."

This invoked a chorus of three different types of responses; Cawley and Eames who chuckled and told him to shut up, Merlin who groaned—having forgotten about it, and Scanlan who just laughed because he'd traded business for art history.

Eames switched on his magnetometer and Merlin his shrunken interferometer. Scanlan had been trusted with wielding the camera and the massive torch, as he wasn't exactly renowned for his responsibility or coordination. This was expensive equipment.

" _Allons_ - _y_ ," Merlin frowned, and they followed him into the woods.

What immediately struck Cawley about Ringrose was that even by the light of the stunning full moon, dark shadows still hung around the trees. He was almost tempted to grab the camera from around Scanlan's neck and snap random photographs in case of a cryptid sighting. An unknown kind of bird sung a strangled requiem.

It was the kind of place one felt observed.

It was the kind of place one didn't belong.

Scanlan's torch lit the way as they trudged along a nonexistent path, occasionally bumping into trees as they checked the readings on their equipment without thinking to pause. So far, no luck. Cawley adored Merlin, he really did, but he had never exactly been a fan of the quest for the Dyason Echo. He knew how desperate his friend was getting, but he never thought he'd resort to relying on a local legend to solve his problems. He wanted to support and help him in whatever way he could, but he didn't want to see him get hurt because this wasn't going to be... Well, something that actually existed. And even if it was—which it wasn't—there was a reason that family had faced tragedy. And it chilled him to the core.

"Anything?" Merlin asked.

Eames: "Nothing,"

Cawley: "Zero,"

Scan: "Zilch,"

Paschke: "Bupkis,"

Merlin: "Neither,"

After about an hour of that, it suddenly became eerily cold, and Cawley stepped closer to Merlin for warmth. The two of them were currently in the middle of the group, Scanlan and Paschke having commandeered the front, Eames at the back.

"The temperature just dropped five degrees." Paschke said, his tone rattled.

"Just like that?" Scanlan asked, "Surely that's not possible."

"Hm..." Merlin mumbled, evidently concerned. Cawley agreed—this wasn't a good sign. 

"Hey guys, come look at—" Eames' voice came from somewhere through the trees to their right.


	4. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t know people’s names, why not just give them bizarre nicknames?

Startled, Meares looked down at her buzzing interferometer and magnetometer. Finally, at long last, after exactly one hour and forty-three minutes, they had picked something up. She had almost been ready to tell Wren that she was heading back to the car—they had spent too much time here for one night, and they could come back next month. The Dyason Echo had been hidden for over two hundred years, it wasn't as if there were other people who were going to be looking for it. Let alone looking for it at exactly the same time as they were.

Experimentally, she moved the devices to the right, with a resulting reduction in their readings. She raised an eyebrow. She moved them to the left, which was met with an increase in their readings. She raised the other eyebrow.

Despite knowing she was going to regret this, she glanced up at Wren in front of her, then began to follow the machines. In horror movies, the ones who strayed from the path were always the first to go, yet she did it anyway. The things she did for her friends, honestly. It was going to get her killed. She just didn't want to get Wren's hopes up in case it was a false alarm. Ignoring the looming shadows around her and instead focusing on the ever growing readings, she hurried into a small clearing that she hadn't known was there. In the ground directly in the middle sat something that definitely shouldn't have been there; a trapdoor, with a long bar for a handle. Her devices practically screamed at her.

"Wren!" She called and sprinted over to it, "I think I've found—"

She was cut off by someone running towards the door from the opposite direction, shouting, "Hey guys, come look at—"

He saw her and fell silent.

They both skidded to a halt on either side of the door, staring at each other in shock with held breaths. Meares held her hands out as if she had just stuck a landing, but really it was just a result of her sudden brake. 

He was dark-skinned, with dark eyes and a halo of black hair. He wore a black jacket over grey trousers and a shirt that was possibly yellow, but it was difficult to tell in the moonlight. Had it been a normal day, she would have noted that he looked kind, but it was not a normal night, and instead he just looked startled and the only thought that was spinning through her mind was ‘ _What‽’_.

As Wren ran up to her and accidentally crashed into her shoulder, she inhaled sharply at the sight of the guy, who was soon joined by a group of four others. 

"—you dumb clucks!" One of them was saying.

Someone else responded, "Excuse you but I am a singular cluck."

"Well I'm sorry, Señor Singular Cluck—" The first started to reply, but he cut himself off when he saw the two girls. The boys echoed the expression on Startled Lad's face, which Meares wouldn't have been surprised to find reflected on her own face if she looked in a mirror. Once the initial shock had worn out, the two groups regarded each other in silent suspicion. The tension in the air was so thick that insects would have had difficulty flying past. No one moved—perhaps they were suffering the same situation as the insects.

"Could only be Wannabes," Wren remarked with a certain coldness as she scrutinised them, referring to them by the common nickname given to Wanliss students. As Meares truly looked at them, she knew her friend was right. They reeked of narcissism and prosperity. One of them—brown, longer Ivy League hair, grey denim jacket, tall—had a watch that put Rolex to shame. She squinted at him. Apart from his outfit, he looked like he looked like he had walked straight out from a magazine cover.

"Could only be Outsiders," replied one of the others hostilely, using the nickname for Outhwaite students. Meares didn't care for it—it reminded her of _The Outsiders_ by S.E Hinton, and that was heartbreak she didn't need on a regular basis. She wasn't sure how this Wanliss bloke had reached this conclusion, as she didn't think that either of them were really dressed too flashily. Perhaps they just emitted a vibe. The one who had spoken was taller and stockier than Magazine Cover, and had curly, red hair that was tapered. He wore a varsity jacket and Vans. He reminded her of a furnace. He practically screamed 'sports player named Fred'.

"So... What brings you here?" Asked another guy, awkwardly, with a faint Irish lilt. He had brown hair, and a significant portion of his wavy fringe stuck out from the grey beanie on his head. The grey matched the colour of his overcoat, which sat over a plaid shirt. His dark eyebrows were dipped in a frown and he bit his lip in concern.

"Oh, you know..." Wren answered, sticking out her chin, "A midnight stroll through our favourite group of eldritch trees." This was a flat-out lie and everyone knew it, but everyone _also_ knew that she hadn't intended to conceal this fact.

"You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to be looking for a particular local legend, would you?" Anxious Beanie asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Wren's expression darkened, "You're not taking this from us."

"Hey, there's more of us than there are of you." Furnace Fred crossed his arms.

"Was that a threat?" Meares scowled.

"No!" And he genuinely looked appalled, "I was pointing out that majority rules. And in this case, we're the majority."

Wren balled her hands into a pair of fists, "Where are we? A kindergarten playground‽"

"Or grade six," Furnace Fred shrugged, "'Cause that's apparently where you're retaining your insults from."

"Or!" Startled Lad interjected frantically and loudly, and Meares noticed his English accent, "Or we could stop arguing and search for this thing together! The more the merrier, right?"

He nodded repeatedly and smiled nervously as the two groups considered this, in conversations consisting of exchanged expressions. Wren looked sceptical, and Meares was too, but she didn't see how they could be betrayed in this instance. It wasn't like the Dyason Echo had a quota. She was pretty sure. And if it did, then that was just rude.

She kind of admired the fact that these guys were able to have a non-verbal conversation with five people. Sure, she had four really close friends that she really loved, but she felt that any attempts they gave would be clunky, confusing, and quite frankly just wouldn't work. Whereas these guys did it seamlessly. Although she couldn't understand what they were saying, one thing she understood is that she and Wren wouldn't be getting a response. Startled Lad had made the first move on the boys' behalf whether they liked it or not, and it was unspoken knowledge between the two groups that it was the girls' turn. Meares gave her friend a look, a look that said "don't be difficult". It seemed she got her point across.

With obvious reluctance, Wren conceded, "Fine. We'll work with you. Not _for_ , but _with_."

The guys nodded, and Anxious Beanie said "Cool," but before Meares had time to make a joke that involved his comment in terms of temperature and his beanie, his mate Furnace Fred bent down and attempted to lift the hatch. It didn't budge. He huffed and adjusted his grip, trying again. Nothing.

"A little help?" He asked no one in particular, clearly frustrated. Magazine Cover and Startled Lad grabbed hold of the handle whilst Señor Singular Cluck shone his torch over them. With varied expressions of concentration and exertion, they had no more success than before.

"For Pete's sake, move over." Meares handed her torch to Wren and shouldered Magazine Cover so he would make space for her as she knelt down beside them. It seemed like forever, but she knew it was actually less than a minute until something budged. The four of them gasped slightly—they'd all felt it. Finally, they were thrown backwards as the door came loose and crashed on top of them.

"You did it!" Anxious Beanie grinned, and Meares was surprised when Wren didn't make a 'Captain Obvious' joke.

The four hatch lifters scrambled out from under the door, dusting themselves off, and Señor Singular Cluck shone his light down the hole, muttering a trailed-off "yikes".

Meares brushed rust, moss and dirt off of her hands as she gazed down the hole. There was a ladder of questionable reliability attached to one of the walls, and dust particles floated through the air. It smelled arcane and seeped _otherness_. Something made her stomach stir, but she wasn't sure if it was excitement or her body telling her to get the hell out of dodge. It wasn't somewhere she was jumping at the chance to venture, but she knew that despite how rational her hesitation may be, there was no doubt about it. They were doing this.

"Anyone have any idea what's down there?" Magazine Cover asked doubtfully, frowning and rubbing his chin.

"Hopefully what we've been looking for." Anxious Beanie said, glancing over at him. There was a sense of ominousness that came with that reply, yet his friends didn't seem to be too affected by it. Perhaps he often spoke like he was in a movie and they were just used to it. Although, she had to admit, it certainly added to the mystical atmosphere.

"Ladies first..." Señor Singular Cluck remarked, with a tone that conveyed he didn't necessarily want to enter this unknown land.

Meares wasn't sure she blamed him. If anyone wasn't nervous, then she'd seriously consider recommending a psychological checkup.

Wren glared at him and rolled up her sleeves, "Watch us." She spat defiantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should give the chapters names other than dramatic, all-caps “ONE” and “TWO” et cetera. Also that’s probably confusing — chapter 4 is called “THREE”? I dunno, though. I’ll work on it.


	5. FOUR

The cold metal of the ladder burned Wren's hands as she descended down the hole, and multiple times her feet nearly slipped on moss. She glared up at Meares after a bunch of dirt had cascaded onto her hair. Glancing down, she saw that she was only a few rungs from the floor, so she stepped down another and jumped off. She took a few steps forwards and shone her torch down the tunnel ahead, which revealed nothing but the compacted dirt walls and uneven ground. It was actually quite impressive how they had done that in the 1800's. A thud came from behind her and another beam of light joined hers. She turned her head to see Meares, looking particularly unsettled.

"We're so close," Wren said in a soft voice, "We find this thing then we're done with the spooky voodoo crap, yeah?"

Meares nodded, eyes darting to and fro, "I wouldn't be averse to that..."

"Space is filling up here," said the next down the ladder, the beanie kid. Beanie Kid. Like those bear dolls. The likeness was uncanny.

Wren began to make her way down the tunnel, alternating between shining her light on the ceiling and the floor. She didn't want to fall down a massive hole or trip over a root, but she didn't exactly fancy a concussion either.

"Is there anything up ahead?" One of the others asked, and she guessed from the English accent that it was the peacemaking nerd.

"Can't see anything yet," Meares responded, raising her voice enough so the others behind them could hear. The shuffling sounds increased, and when another light joined there's, Wren assumed that Spanish Sam Winchester had gone last and now all of them were in the tunnel. The eerie tunnel. The dark, eerie tunnel. The endless, dark, eerie tunnel.

The fear she had been repressing in the forest was starting to creep up on her. She had been determined to focus on the task, not the terror. She was finding the Echo no matter what, and she didn't care for showing vulnerable emotions. She would ignore the walls pressing in on her. She would ignore the cold chills down her spine. She would ignore the whispering in her ear.

"For the record?" Someone—pretentious, superior, Rolex?—hissed, "I don't like this."

"Shut up." Someone else replied, probably the Dallas Winston wannabe, seeing as he was the only one left who hadn't spoken. It was also the kind of thing someone as pugnacious as him would say.

"Beg your pardon?" Rollin' With Ma Rolex asked.

"No, he's right," Beanie Kid said, "Can you not hear that?"

There was a brief pause, then Dallas Winston began to speak again, "Well actually I was saying it 'cause-" But Spanish Sam (she was pretty sure, at least) shushed him, his light darting all over the tunnel with no apparent pattern.

"I hear it, too..." Wren admitted, her frown deepening. She didn't know whether the fact that she wasn't the only one hearing this was a good or a bad sign. On a normal day, she would have said it was great news—hallucinating wasn't a fun time. But now? She wasn't so sure. If she hadn't been carrying a torch in one hand, she knew that by this point she would have started to clean under her nails—a terrible habit that she had no clue as to when, why or how it had started. Her free hand fidgeted at her side.

"I don't?" Dallas Winston said, his tone clearly suggesting he thought they were insane.

"You're sure you're not deaf?" Meares asked, briefly turning her head back, as if she could see his face when she did this. Maybe it was so the comment would reach him without interference.

"I don't hear it either," Rolex offered.

"Well you're _both_ deaf..." English Nerd muttered.

Wren nearly dropped everything she was holding; she had been so focused on the conversation behind her and the ever growing volume of the voices that she had forgotten about the devices they were carrying. They all started screaming—the ones she and Meares had, and the ones the boys had. Then there was a door. She stopped in her tracks. Meares walked into her back. Beanie Kid walked into hers, English Nerd walked into his, and so on, so forth.

"What the hell?" Dallas Winston growled.

"I found the end of the tunnel," she replied, setting her machines down on the ground, "But there's no way I'm taking those in with me if they keep behaving like that."

"Finally," Rolex sighed, "My feet hurt."

"Aw, poor baby," Wren said through gritted teeth, pushing the door with her shoulder and pulling the handle. There were a few beats until it gave way, swinging open and sending her stumbling over the threshold.

Regaining her balance, she shone her torch around and took a few steps further in. It was, undoubtedly, a room. But it was unclear what its purpose would have been. The walls and floor were stone, cracked with age. Dust coated every inch of everything her light touched, a result of many years in abandonment. Cobwebs gathered in corners, yet another thing created only to be abandoned. It was remarkable, really, how many things were.

"What is this place?" Meares breathed, arriving next to her.

"A workshop, it seems..." Beanie Kid wandered in past them, approaching one of the various tables covered in discarded pieces of a forgotten ambition.

"Wow..." English Nerd muttered, his awed smile audible. Wren didn't blame him; the place was a museum. Which was, admittedly, more Meares' idea of a fun place to visit, but that didn't mean Wren couldn't see the beauty of everything there was to offer in a location such as this. There had been no restorative work—everything had been untouched for centuries by anything except age. They were the first people to step foot inside since the death of the last Dyason. Something about that sped up her heart, although she was unsure as to whether that was from excitement or discomfort.

"Remind me what—ow, get that light out of my face—what we're looking for, again?" Dallas asked, glaring at the torch-holder at fault of his temporary blindness.

 _Yeah, get your act together, Spanish Sam,_ Wren thought, shaking her head in mock shame.

There was rustling from Beanie Kid's direction, and her eyes widened when she saw he had pulled out a copy of The Codex. He opened it to a specific page, at a speed remarkable enough that he must have bookmarked it, and rotated the book so everyone could see the picture, "Something with this handle,"

"Wait, you have _The Codex_?" Meares asked, beating Wren to it.

There was a pause.

"You have _The Codex_?" Rolex responded, his voice as equally confused. Wren pulled it from her bag and waved it in the air. There was another pause, this time uncomfortable, until Spanish Sam shrugged and began to search the wall behind him. The rest of them followed suit.

Wren glanced around her, unsure of where to begin. Her eyes landed on a reasonably sized chest pushed against one of the brick walls that was starting to develop white mould. She knelt down to undo the buckled leather straps that kept the lid closed, and turned her face away from the dust unsettled into the air as a result of its opening with a creak. Masking a cough, she peered inside. It appeared to be filled with various stacks of journals and items bound in leather.

She picked up the topmost journal and opened it to the first page, reading ' _Finances, 1824_ '. A quick flick-through revealed it was exactly that. The next one was titled ' _Sketches by Margaret_ ', and the one below it was ' _Finances, 1823_ ', but none of these struck her as particularly relevant. Placing them on the floor beside her with care, she then removed the rest of the journals in a large stack, turning up her nose as she aggressively brushed her dust-coated hands together. It had gathered under her nails, but she resisted the impulse to clean them. She really needed to start cutting them more frequently.

Lying at the bottom of the trunk, one of the leather-bound objects caught her eye. Smaller than the others, it weighed more than it appeared, and just holding it in her hand made her fingers and palm tingle. Breath held and hands shaking, she unwrapped the binding, and fumbled to catch the key that fell out. She allowed the leather to drop as she inspected the rusted key and its intricate handle. Keys had always fascinated her; small or big, always capable of so much more than the world thought. Unable to exist without a secret, yet without it, the unguarded secret would be revealed to the harsh eye of the public.

"What's this?" Rolex asked, appearing at her side without warning. He crouched down, too, to examine the leather she had dismissed as mere packaging. Ye olden day foam peanuts, yet less likely to be unintentionally consumed. A positive aspect of using a bland rectangle of material instead of something resembling a form of sustenance.

She glanced over, uninterested, and held the key up, "Only what this was wrapped in,"

His brow furrowed slightly and he looked back down at the leather, "' _Only_ '?" He flipped it over for her to see, "I take it you didn't see this?"

Her eyes widened in surprise as she leant forwards, squinting, "Is that Latin?"

It was his turn to widen his eyes, "You don't take Latin?"

She glared at him and his grandiloquence, "No. I take French. Because it has an actual purpose. Unlike a language people only learn just so that they can say they know it, showing off at fancy parties surrounded by eager onlookers, champagne flutes in hand."

Rolex blinked at her, then looked back at the leather as he mouthed an ' _okaaay_ '.

"What did you find?" English Nerd asked as the sound of his footsteps approached.

"A key and some Latin," Wren responded. She stood up and went to dust off her stockings before realising that her hands were covered in potent rust. Great.

"Oh, intriguing," he turned to Rolex, "What does it say?"

"You don't know Latin?" She asked, slightly shocked.

English Nerd scoffed, "Please. I learn Ancient Greek. It's way more interesting."

"Oh my god, leave me alone," Rolex sighed, "Am I not the only one who can tell you what this means? Unless your friend takes Latin, too?"

Wren shook her head. Meares took Ancient Greek, too. Nerds.

Rolex's squinted eyes scanned the foreign scrawls, lips mouthing the words he read, then spoke so everyone could hear him, "Guys, I know where to find the door with the handle,"

"Would it be over here, by any chance?" Beanie Kid asked, pointing to the bookcase he stood next to. The look of shock that passed over Rolex's face didn't fail to amuse Wren.

"Yes?" He said, "How did you know?"

Beanie Kid shrugged, an effort to portray nonchalance despite his evident discomfort, "Just a hunch. Someone help me move this?"

As Dallas and Meares went to help, Wren frowned. 'Just a hunch'. She seemed to be relying a great deal on hunches, herself, lately. In fact, a hunch is what had led her to unwrapping the bundle that held the key instead of any others, and to disregard the journals. She didn't want to say 'fate', but she was slowly starting to believe in a concept that may follow a similar principle.

With various grunts of exertion and frustration, the three of them managed to move the bookshelf, parting dust on the floor like a windscreen wiper on a car. And, as predicted, it revealed an iron door with the same handle Beanie Kid had shown them from _The Codex._ It had the head of a lynx—the symbol of the Dyasons. Wren hurried over, as did the others.

Beanie Kid, who stood in front of it, glanced back at everyone. When he was met with nods of eager encouragement, he stepped forwards and pressed his shoulder to the door, shoving it open.

They all filed into the other room, which somehow seemed darker, and smaller, and... emptier. Emptier. Where was the magical atmosphere? The tunnel and the workshop were charged with mysticism, while this room lacked a purpose, lacked a soul.

Torch lights darted fervently around the room, everyone else seemingly sharing the same confusion and unease as Wren. But their searches revealed nothing but a confirmation of their suspicions; not only was the room metaphysically empty, but it was physically empty, as well.

"The Echo," Spanish Sam murmured, "It's not here..."


	6. FIVE

Harley Paschke craved justice.

Everyday his eyes skimmed over headlines, misdeeds fuelling his ever-present anger at the spineless people that sadly existed in this world. Murder, arson, theft. Stabbings, shootings, physical assault.

But what could he do? A sixteen-year-old in a small Australian town. Too young to be taken seriously, too young to have a valid opinion.

He clearly remembers the day he decided to take action in the only way he knew possible. He remembers spinning around sharply as the words of casual venom left Brock Thynne’s mouth. A passing comment to elicit a cruel laugh. He probably would have forgotten about it after an hour had Paschke not used every word Thynne was capable of processing and more to clearly articulate exactly what the issues were with that statement. Words had a great deal more power when partnered with colours surrounding swollen eyes or crimson dripping from lips. As well as provoking Thynne’s stunned expression, this action also ensured the rest of Wanliss’ athletics team learnt to watch their mouths from thereon.

Every now and then someone would slip up, but Paschke was only ever too happy to correct them.

~

It was this crusade for equality that led to Paschke’s feelings of discomfort as he slowed down his Alfieri outside Outhwaite Academy. He recognised what this situation was going to look like to the girls; Wanliss, sports car, heads out the windows. They only needed a thundering bass from the radio to complete the starter pack for your standard rich kid asshole. He was quite familiar with the distasteful cat-calling habits of some Wanliss students with too much time on their hands, and the last thing he wanted was to evoke that same vibe. Girls deserved better than to be treated that way.

However, after leaving the Dyason workshop a few days previous—empty-handed save for a coded note Scanlan had found stuck in a crack in the wall—the two groups had thought to exchange names, yet not contact details. And, for some reason, the boys had come to the conclusion that finding them as they were coming out of school would be less stalkerish than finding their Instagrams.

Now? He was seriously doubting that decision.

“I can’t see them,” Eames commented from the passenger seat.

“Duly noted,” Paschke muttered, one hand on the wheel and the other arm out the window. He pushed his sunglasses up by scrunching his nose.

Cawley fidgeted in his seat, “I still don’t understand why we have to be in the back,”

“Because you’re the children.” Paschke responded, not removing his eyes from the road.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Merlin complained, although not too offended.

Eames’ confirmation was somewhat distant, as he was focused on attempting to spot Wren and Meares amongst the sea of blue-blazered Outhwaite students, “It means you’re the children.”

“But—” The cramped Cawley and Merlin began to oppose the statement.

“Hush, children!” Paschke chastised, and was suddenly glad he had perfected the art of appearing utterly serious whilst joking. Although, he was only half-joking. In their group, Merlin, Cawley and Scanlan were totally the children. He was prepared to fight someone if they disagreed.

“I’m the _second oldest_!” Merlin protested.  


“Scanlan!” Cawley exclaimed, shocked that the Argentinian hadn’t risen to defend his honour. But Scanlan just shrugged.

“I mean, they’re kinda right,” he said, then his tone changed, “Hey, it’s Martina!”

Paschke glanced out the opposite window, then flicked his eyes to the review mirror after hearing Scan say “Scoot!”. Just in time to see Merlin squawk in surprise as his friend climbed past him to jump out of the car. Cawley attempted to mask a snicker with a cough, but judging from his yelp at an attack from Merlin, it didn’t work too well.

Paschke turned his attention to where Scanlan was talking with his younger sister, Martina. Although it was rare for all four of the Scanlan siblings to be in the same location, considering the older two were away at university, it always amused Paschke when he was present. Their height order perfectly matched the order of their ages, like a satisfying bar graph. Yikes, a bar graph? Satisfying? He’s been spending too much time with Eames.

In hindsight, out of the five members of their tight-knit group, Scan was definitely the best choice to show his face at Outhwaite. Untameable hair, untucked shirt, one sleeve rolled up higher than the other? He didn’t give off a class-A jerk vibe as much as the others would have, except for perhaps Merlin. To an Outsider, Cawley looked like a snob, Eames looked like a suck-up and Paschke looked like a drug dealer.

Martina glanced over her shoulder, then back at her brother. Her expression was a combination of unimpressed, amused and reluctant. Scanlan seemed to sigh, and bowed his head slightly. A grin spread across Martina’s face and she nodded, before spinning him around and shoving him in the direction of the Alfieri.

The teenage boy looked solemnly regretful as he climbed back into the sports car, ignoring a protesting Merlin and gleeful Cawley again.

“Dude, what did you agree to?” Paschke asked as he watched the younger Scanlan scamper off on some unknown errand, then put his foot back on the accelerator.

“No,” he replied, running a hand through his hair, “I’m not telling you that.”

“What? You can’t just do that!” Merlin said.

“Don’t leave us hanging, man,” Eames chimed in from the front.

Scanlan sighed, “I have to let her braid my hair whenever she wants.”

There was a chorus of laughter at his expense as they drove onto Mawby Terrace, the main road.

“Thank you, Martina!” Merlin cackled, “You’re doing God’s work!”

“Shut _uuup_ ,” Scan groaned.

~

The five boys sat comfortably in a dark red booth at _Clary & Knowles_, tapping their feet and twiddling their thumbs, discussing the latest petty drama between Wanliss and the St Ledger public school, Southern Cross High. Having been on the field at this particular rugby game, Paschke related the final try, scored by SCH’s Wally Glynn. The controversy related to the chokehold he had used on Wanliss’ Cody Wang, which Wanliss argued was a type of grapple tackle ignored by the referee, and should have had him sent off not long before the try score. Sports was a dirty business in St Ledger; highly competitive, with players’ names and futures at stake. But Paschke suspected that to make the team, some of the Wanliss rugby players had resorted to their bank accounts instead of practice.

The door to _Clary & Knowles _opened with a cool breeze and a jingle of a bell. Paschke looked up to see Wren and Meares approaching their booth, their expressions betraying their lack of enthusiasm at, presumably, the boys’ appearance at the girls’ school.

“What the hell?” Wren asked immediately, staring down at them with her arms crossed, “Thanks to that stunt you pulled earlier we’re going to have half of Outhwaite thinking we’re running with Wannabes.”

“Well you kind of _are_ running with Wannabes...” Paschke muttered. On the other side of the booth, Merlin and Eames scooted across to make room for Wren and Meares. They looked quite cramped—these booths were only really meant for four people, and although six was tolerable, seven was kind of pushing it.

“Doesn’t mean we need our schools knowing that,” Meares commented sourly as she nudged her bag under the table, “I mean, look around. 10 o’clock—Southerners.” Paschke glanced behind her, slightly to the left, for the first time noticing the three SCH students sitting there. “6 o’clock—other Wannabes.” He saw Eames and Merlin’s eyes flick towards somewhere behind him.

He realised that the girls were right; they’d been careless, and it probably was in their best interests to keep their partnership a secret from St Ledger. There was no telling what the reactions would be from the two Academies, even if there was no way that they were the first groups to mix. It was best to play it safe.

“Do we know them?” Scanlan asked Eames and Merlin, who shook their heads.

“So, after all of that, we’re getting ice cream and you’re going to tell us why we’re here.” Wren declared, standing up with a credit card in her hand. Meares followed, as did the others, who had been waiting for them to arrive like the decent people they had been raised to be.

Choosing a flavour was easy, Paschke had the same one every time—boysenberry. He had thought that he knew of every flavour to be found at _Clary & Knowles_, considering he’d been ordering at its counters for as long as he could remember. However, he became ambivalent as Meares sat down opposite him with ice cream the same colour of her hair—a shade of light purple that had appeared blonde in the moonlight.

He frowned, “What flavour is that?”

She glowered up at him, “Lavender.”

“Is that even a flavour here?” Asked Cawley from beside him.

“Yes.” Her glower turned to him, and he put his hands up in surrender, wide-eyed.

“So,” Wren said before popping some white chocolate ice cream into her mouth, “Spill.”

Eyes turned to Merlin—a deer in the headlights position that fairly warranted his glare. One of the things Paschke admired about his friend was that although being put on the spot was a commonly referenced terrifying position for him, he always followed through. That’s what earned him his stripes in the Wanliss ice hockey team; he never hesitated when the puck came his way.

“Well after the events of last night,” he said, “I think we ought to have a discussion.”

Meares frowned, “About?”

“Several things, actually. Although I don’t really know where to start. Oh, okay, how about how we all came to be looking for this... thing?”

“Fair,” Meares nodded, “I mean what’s the likelihood that after centuries, there would be more than one group searching for it at the same time? Especially since most of the town thinks it’s a myth.”

“To me, it sounds a lot like this was meant to happen,” Wren commented ominously, softening her ice cream in nonchalance. That made it perhaps even more ominous, the fact that it was so offhand.

Cawley scoffed.

Wren looked over at him, “You don’t believe in fate, Cawley?”

He set down his empty cup, then met her eyes, “Fate implies my success isn’t mine.”

“Then how would you explain it?” She asked, “ _The Dyason Codex_ fell from a shelf in the Outhwaite library, just as I was leaving the aisle. The aisle, may I add, was the one with _scientific_ resources.”

“The wind?” He suggested, pulling a face that remarkably resembled that one photo of Obama. Paschke bit back a bark of laughter. Not only did his friend look ridiculous, but he was also grasping at straws with about as much subtlety as Paschke did himself when stealing people’s toast. Or hitting his teammates with cricket bats and whistling as he acted like it wasn’t him.

“Over the years I’ve learnt that fate is not something to disrespect,” Meares said, and holy hell, were these two the sisters of doom? They should join Merlin and form a club, “But anyway, that’s us. What brought all of you into this?”

“That would be Eames,” Merlin nodded his head in the direction of the resident nerd. Wren raised her eyebrows slightly and Meares tilted her head.

Eames shrugged, “Well it was actually my dad that found _The Codex._ When he was around our age, I believe, and solved the first cipher. But if we’re referring to the reason why he gave it to me, then you’ll have to ask Merlin.”

Tightened grip, avoidance of eye contact, monotonous tone; the thing about Merlin was that being a quick thinker didn’t mean he was a good liar.

“I was just looking for an adventure.” He replied into his ice cream. Coconut. So original.

“Fair enough,” Meares said, but her ability to hide her scepticism matched Merlin’s inability to lie.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Scan leant his elbows on the table, “What’s our next step?”

Wren perked up slightly, “Mm. Neither of us have had time to take a proper look at the cipher yet, but I can try to tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, though.”

“Eames and I can’t do anything tomorrow either,” Cawley said as Eames shook his head.

“I can probably find time,” Meares said as she rubbed her lower lip, and Paschke could practically see her brain planning her schedule way too in-depth. She and Eames would make quite a pair.

“I have an essay to write,” Paschke sighed, accidentally hitting Cawley with his knee as he crossed his leg over the other.

“Down for a study session, Scanlan?” Merlin asked.

“Yup,” Scanlan replied, “Enjoy your HPE, Paschke.”

“Shut your mouth,” he snapped, ignoring his friend’s smug smirk.


End file.
